


Intense Reading

by livingxvxfaith



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-16
Updated: 2015-10-16
Packaged: 2018-04-26 15:27:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5009998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livingxvxfaith/pseuds/livingxvxfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bakura gets a strange surprise when a mysterious man takes an interest in him. [For the YGO gift exchange]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intense Reading

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rukatofan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rukatofan/gifts).



It wasn’t exactly silent. There was a feathery hum of ambient noise coalescing together into the distinct sound of the spacious bookstore late in the afternoon: a few coughs here and there, the distant hiss and spray of coffee brewing in the small back café, pages rustling between the hands of potential buyers in the midst of making their decision, intimate murmuring, and the _ding!_ of cash registers by the front doors. Bakura found the familiar sensation of noise spread out over wide open spaces between patron heads and the high ceiling rather soothing: not too distant, but not an overwhelmingly dense pressure, either. He could work an entire stack of books—adding new stock into place and rearranging disorganized material correctly—without anyone crossing his path, yet not entirely alone.

As usual, his white hair was tied back into a low ponytail against his back—something about that apparently made him seem more approachable, but it also kept his hair out of his eyes while he worked—and his nametag pinned to the left of his chest. Aside from a small gaggle of middle school girls who had not-so-covertly stared at him from afar and whispered giggly to each other—something not exactly uncommon and which he had gotten used to pretending to not notice—it had been a peaceful shift so far. He had tidied up the “New Releases” and clearance sections, shifted and adjusted the science fiction section to make space for unloading a box of new books, and was moving on to his favorite spot. He pulled a small cart with the box of new items into one of the small back shelves marked “Occult” where all the books on paranormal activity, magic, rituals, and esoteric history were housed. Being against the wall, the little U-shaped block felt cozy and inviting—to _him_ anyway.

It took a lot of effort slide book after book onto the shelf without flipping through each one first. Most of the covers had such intricate designs promising intrigue, art, possibilities—all he needed to do was open, learn, absorb. Their mass seemed to vibrate in his hands, the lines and colors spiraling at the peripheries of his vision. One book in particular was even dressed up with black velvet and metalwork to give the impression of a Gothic vampire’s coffin. He stroked it, following the webbing pattern with gentle fingers before slipping it, too, into place. Though he managed to restrain himself from scouring through the pages, he still moved slowly, as if he were underwater, the weight of his interest and desire thickening the air. He reached into the box to pull out the remaining books in one small stack when a patron sauntered around the corner. It was a man, a black long-sleeve shirt so tight it almost seemed painted on—and there was no reason for it not to be, as the lean muscles underneath were clearly a feature to be proud of. The fingers of his left hand were casually inserted inside the pocket of his black denim jeans, and his eyelids hung low, giving the impression that he was incurably bored. At the same time his posture was so tall and erect with shoulders back that Bakura felt the dignified aura on his skin from two meters away.

Bakura felt his attention drawn toward the man, who stood with his chin up as if looking down on the materials before him with disdain. Bakura tried to keep his eyes away in a manner that wasn’t an obvious attempt to not look at him, but the effort only slowed his pace even more so that putting the last five books into place took at least three minutes. The man had hardly moved it that time—he had certainly taken no notice of his company in the space—still staring at the shelf with one hand at his hip and the other at his side in an involuntary fist. Bakura felt a shudder in his chest. The wild spikes of his pale-blond hair only added to the patron’s intimidating presence, but rather than awkwardly sneaking by behind him, Bakura swallowed and forced himself to ask, like a good service employee, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

It took the span of a long, nervous breath for the man to realize that Bakura had been speaking to _him_. He slowly turned his head with a deliberation that suggested he wanted Bakura to _know_ just how uninterested he was in acknowledging him. When their eyes met, they gave the impression that he was looking down on something he found utterly boring. But then he just kept staring. Everything around Bakura seemed to fade beneath the surging current of the blood in his ears. The man’s violet eyes took on a more appraising tone as his brows arched and his head tilted slightly. Under that gaze Bakura felt exposed and vulnerable, getting lightheaded and chilled. The man looked so tall and solidly built, and with his wild hair and sharp features he gave out an aura of danger. Bakura began to worry that maybe he had offended the man by interrupting him with his audacity to be present near him, let alone _speak_ to him. He felt a surging desire to run away and hide his face for a few hours, but that look the man was giving him was also a dare to look away, like a test, and it gave Bakura a sinister feeling, as if looking away would be a failure—and a cause for cruel judgment. Something dark was waiting on the other side of this test if he turned his back. Just as Bakura was feeling himself shrink inside under the pressure, the man’s lips curled up on one side, seeming amused, or at least satisfied. 

“Maybe,” he finally answered. His voice was low, gravelly. He kept Bakura’s eyes in a tight hold with his own. “I’m looking for something to get my brother. His birthday’s coming up, and he’s gotten into this kind of thing lately,” he said with a nonchalant wave toward the shelf. “And fortunately it’s an obsession I don’t mind enabling, as opposed to some of his _other_ hobbies.” Though his final tone was a sneer, Bakura had the feeling that the man in front of him would be more opposed to collecting fluffy plush animals than anything actually scandalously vile. He didn’t push for details.

“Do you have anything specific in mind?” Bakura asked, taking a cautious step closer to the patron’s side.

Even without being terribly close, Bakura could see the man’s eyes dilate. “Not really,” he answered. “Malik just started with this occult business. I think he’s trying to get back to our roots in some way.”

“Your roots?”

The man grinned and nodded. “Egypt. We’re the first in our family to ever leave. He and I were ten, and we weren’t particularly sad about it at the time. But I guess he’s gotten interested.”

“Oh, well then, maybe—uh—Malik would like a book about ancient Egyptian mythology and rituals?”

“Sure, show me what you’ve got.”

With his low, suggestive voice, Bakura couldn’t help but sense a double meaning. He took his next step away toward the Egyptian collection, and the man followed with a cool but appraising gaze. For the first time, though, Bakura felt ready, hiding his confidence under the guise of mere deliberate consideration as he browsed over the titles of each book. He could feel those violet eyes on him like heat.

For the next twenty minutes Bakura offered detailed explanations of what each book contained. As the man held himself erect and steady, though he was only slightly taller, Bakura felt that he was looking down on him from a great height. But he knew his stuff—thanks to his own interest in Egypt ever since his father’s work had taken him there. He spoke easily, surprising himself. In fact, he was _enjoying_ it, being able to talk at length to someone about a subject that truly fascinated him. The man stood facing him, arms crossed, his head slightly cocked to the side. He gave signs of taking in what Bakura said, but his eyes were clearly invested in Bakura himself.

Talking about Egyptian occult matter was so easy and fun that Bakura didn’t at first realize he too was staring, his mind latching onto every feature of his face and figure.

“Let me see that one,” the man said, holding his hand out. Bakura carefully placed the spine of the book right in the center of the open palm, and the man seemed to tilt his head back so he could scan the pages haughtily looking down his nose. Bakura wondered if he did it purposefully or unconsciously.

The man snapped the book shut. “This will do,” he announced, resting it at his side.

“Oh, great,” Bakura replied. “What do you think about a pack of tarot cards to go with that? We’ve got some nice ones with Egyptian art on the backs.”

The man smirked. “Sure, why not.”

“All right, come over here, they’re with the ‘games and activities’—unfortunately,” he ended with a mutter. Occult practices just shouldn’t be considered “games” so casually. There were all sorts of potential consequences . . .

The man’s presence felt huge behind him. Massive. Bakura could imagine a cape billowing behind him—he just gave off that kind of aura.

They reached the games section and Bakura found the cards. He turned to hand them over and the man was much closer than he had anticipated. There was not enough room between them for Bakura to fully extend his arm. He choked back his surprise, and when the man took the cards from him he—quite intentionally, Bakura was certain—ran his fingers over Bakura’s hand. He felt electricity fire up his spine and tingle in his scalp.

“Why don’t I get two,” he said more than asked.

“Oh, sure,” Bakura responded, reaching back and grabbing a second pack. He handed it over, and this time the man took it by the edge so that their skin did not touch.

“Do you need anything else?” Bakura asked, drawing on his employee script.

“Not a thing,” was the reply.

“All right, great, well uh—” Bakura glanced over to the check-out area and saw that there was an open register. He couldn’t say what made him do it, but he said, “Why don’t I check you out over here?” He stepped past the man and made his way behind the counter, feeling that silent, shadowy presence following him.

Bakura rang up the three items and placed them gently into a bag. The man payed with a credit card, and Bakura found himself excited to finally learn the man’s name. He discretely read the card before he swiped it: Marik Ishtar. He pulled out the receipt and slid it across the desk with the card and a pen. “If you’ll just sign that,” he said.

Marik took the pen and signed, but then wrote a note at the bottom in very sharp handwriting before sliding the pen and receipt back and picking up his card.

“Thanks,” he said simply with a smirk as he took the bag from Bakura. The impression it gave was vaguely akin to a spirit of temptation. With a graceful turn, carrying himself upright with confidence, Marik Ishtar left with an air of authority over the world awaiting him beyond the doors, expecting everyone to scatter out of his way. Bakura realized he was staring after him once he was out of sight and shook his head hard enough for his ponytail to swing behind his head. He was about to tuck the receipt away in the register when he remembered the script at the bottom. He felt his head throb as his heart began to pound.

It was a phone number atop the words _Call me when you want a reading_.

The force of the message’s gravity pulled so strongly on Bakura’s eyes that everything around him fell away into a nebulous haze. He stared. And stared. And stared. His whole body throbbed with his pulse, and it wasn’t just his environment that got erased—his mind was rendered empty as well.

He was used to being an object of attention—of hushed conversations as girls followed him or of surreptitious glances—but no one had ever given him their _number_ before. He stared so long the number was imprinted in his memory. Even so, he grabbed a nearby pair of scissors and cut the message from the bottom, leaving the rest of the receipt intact. In any case there was no need to leave the number lying around for anyone to see. He stashed the receipt with the others for the day and, without thinking, stuck the message in his pocket.

For the rest of his shift, he could feel the weight of it at his side, an unnerving sensation only surpassed by the eerie feeling that those violet eyes were still on him, appraising him. Like he couldn’t escape him. Bakura felt a strange knot inside, a knot that couldn’t be detangled to decipher whether the feeling was terror or attraction.

Can you feel both at the same time?

The clock finally altered him that it was time to head out. He grabbed his bag, slipping his nametag inside before slinging it around onto his shoulders. The sky was turning lovely shades of pink and purple as he walked down the sidewalk among the crowds. His focus, however, was still on the small slip of slick paper in his tight fist, buried deep into his pocket.  _Why am I carrying this?_  he wondered.  _Do I really think I’m going to call him?_  The obvious _no_ he expected did not come easily. He walked blinded by his internal thoughts, making his way by habit alone, his fingers squirming. By the time he got to the door of his apartment he could only admit a defeated compromise: he wasn’t sure.

*  *  *

Bakura woke up disoriented. His dreams had been occupied so fully by the overwhelming presence Marik had impressed on him that he could almost believe he was there in the apartment. The crinkled message was lying on his side table in sight, those crisp lines and sharp angles conjuring the memory of those fiercely defined eyes and wicked grin.

 _Why does a guy like that want to talk to me?_ he thought, plucking up the message and staring at it again, pulling his knees up close to his chest. He rubbed his thumb against the edge thoughtfully, tapping his free fingers against his knee. He chewed his lip. As his mind probed into a possible future in which he made the call, his heart followed by speeding up. His toes curled and flexed. He worked his jaw while chewing the length of his bottom lip. He tilted his head back with a soft groan so that he bumped against the wall a few times, as if it would help clear the clutter, shake the kaleidoscope pieces into an answer.

Before he had even come into a decision, he grabbed his cell phone from his table and began typing in the number. He sucked in a lungful of air and shook his head as he blew it out.

What the _hell_ was he doing?

“Yes?” came the familiar voice, low, husky, and . . . strangely seductive.

“Um . . . hi . . .” he started. Where to go from there?

He couldn’t be sure, but he could swear he heard a satisfied sniff in his ear. He could just see the smirk that went with it.

“Bakura,” Marik declared. Bakura blinked a few times before he remembered that he had been wearing a nametag the whole time they had been together.

“Um, yeah, it’s me . . .”

Marik stayed silent for a minute, Bakura guessed to keep him flustered for his own amusement. Well all right, fine, Bakura would meet him—again. Challenge accepted.

He tightened his grip on his phone and let his adrenaline push him forward. “So, uh, when is Malik’s birthday?”

“Wednesday,” he answered.

“Oh, great,” he said with as much enthusiasm as he could muster. What could he say to coax more than one word at a time? “Got any big plans?”

“Are you inviting yourself to the party?” was Marik’s amused riposte.

“Ah, so there’s a party?” Bakura’s quick response surprised him.

“Hypothetically,” Marik clarified, sounding as if he was raising a finger.

“Ah, pardon me!” Bakura said playfully, feeling his own lips pull back into a smile. “And what kind of _hypothetical_ party would you be throwing for Malik?”

“I wouldn’t be the one throwing him a party—since it’s both of our birthdays.”

“Ohhh,” Bakura murmured, “so . . . twins?”

“Well done.”

“Do you two have a lot in common?”

“Besides birth date, DNA, family history, and places we’ve lived?”

Bakura snickered. “Yes, exactly,” he said, thinking _smartass_ to himself.

“I wouldn’t say ‘a lot,’ no.”

“Do you get along?”

“Well enough. I got him something, didn’t I?”

“Yes, yes you did. And something for yourself as well, I believe?”

“Indeed.” There was a pause, and Bakura wondered if it was his turn in the banter, but before he began Marik continued, “Have we finally reached your main objective?”

“What, just because you said to call you for a tarot reading, you think that _must_ be why I called? That’s a bit presumptuous, don’t you think?”

Marik chuckled. “I see, you’d rather know more about my relationship with my brother.”

“Maybe I just wanted to know more about _you_.”

Bakura’s eyes went wide once the words had left his mouth. _Did I really just say that?_ he thought with some panic, ice spreading across his skin. _And . . . is it true?_

“I suppose that is possible, but I wouldn’t want to presume.”

Bakura took a deep breath to steady himself. “Oh no, of course you wouldn’t,” he laughed, easing himself back into the casual mood. “Well, as it turns out, I would be happy to get a reading from you. Have you done it before?”

“Oh yes,” Marik assured him, extending the words for a few extra beats. “But now I have a brand new deck to work with. Its first reading should be special, don’t you agree?”

Bakura filled his mouth with his bent knee to maintain some sense of control and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead. What the hell was happening here? What the _hell_ was he supposed to say to that? Was this flattery? A game? A joke? _What_?

“Sounds reasonable to me,” he managed to say—slowly. “You’re expecting the reading to be special?”

“Of course,” Marik answered smoothly.

“Well,” Bakura said, nervously rocking when Marik didn’t offer any other material. “I guess as long as you think so, that’s what matters.”

“Hn,” Marik snorted. “Meet me in Domino Square in an hour.”

“Oh, you . . . o-ok, sure.”

“We’re not doing it over the phone, if that’s what you thought,” Marik laughed.

“I guess I hadn’t thought about it until just now.” Bakura combed his fingers through his hair with some embarrassment.

“I’ll see you soon, Bakura,” Marik said, his voice lingering on Bakura’s name in such a way Bakura felt his skin prickle.

“Yeah, see you soon . . . Marik.”

 _Click_.

It ended. Bakura dropped the phone next to him on the bed and let out the groan waiting deep in his chest. He dragged his hands over his face and realized that he was sweating. It felt like he had just set up an interview for worldwide broadcast. Was this really happening? Was he really doing this?

*  *  *

Apparently, yes.

It was almost ten, and Bakura was on his way to the Square. Even surrounded by people, it felt like a dream, though he was grateful that the designated location was such a public space—whatever security that might offer. His hands were damp and his heart was racing, but he couldn’t tell if it was because he thought Marik was some kind of threat or because . . . he was _excited_. Either way, he was nervous as hell.

He arrived inside the Square where all sorts of people lounged and sauntered around, creating a more-or-less leisurely atmosphere. Bakura stopped and scanned the scene, passing over couples and teen girl flocks and businessmen in suits until he found him. Marik was leaning against a wall with his arms crossed, staring out straight ahead with some kind of bland smile, amused by the sight of ordinary people living their simple lives and with their simple priorities, by their ego contrasted with the meaninglessness of their existence. Or at least that’s what Bakura gathered from the expression.

As he began his path toward Marik, Bakura quickly wiped his palms against his legs to get them dry. Not that he expected Marik to be a handshake kind of guy. And it turned out he was right. When Bakura stepped up beside him, Marik glanced toward him, barely moving his head. He smirked coolly, and Bakura felt the same chill sweep over his skin as before.  _Why am I doing this?_  he asked himself for the thousandth time.

“There’s a table over there,” Marik indicated with a flick of his chin before he pushed himself forward. His shoulders naturally pulled back when he stood, Bakura noticed as he followed.

They sat down opposite each other, Marik throwing one knee over the other and leaning back with an air both casual and dignified. Bakura sat straight, back tall and knees together, hands in fists on his legs. Marik tilted his head back as if specifically intending to look down on Bakura. His smirk grew. “You’re nervous,” he said in observation.

Bakura twitched, trying not to be embarrassed. He began to fidget. “Well . . . um . . . yes, I guess I am.”

Marik uncrossed his legs and leaned forward on his forearms. “What’s got you nervous?” he asked curiously, his voice low and strangely magnetic. He stared at Bakura with intense interest.

Bakura felt himself pull back before he could stop himself, but he held the gaze. He knew there was some kind of game going on in Marik’s mind, though what the game was he couldn’t say. He was under observation, he was sure of that, and Marik was extremely interested in seeing what would happen next. Maybe part of the game was provoking some surprise entertainment out of him. Marik was clearly toying with him—what’s got him nervous, indeed!—and that made Bakura twist his toes against the ground with nerves. And yet, he couldn’t deny that there was a part of him that saw not just amusement at his expense gleaming in those violet eyes, but also . . . an  _invitation_. This man didn’t want to laugh at Bakura, he was asking Bakura to do something, to defy the low expectations he had of humanity. He was prodding whatever potential had caught his attention in that first moment. He was commanding, in his own seductive way, _Show me what you’ve got_.

Heat replaced the chill on his skin at the realization, and he saw Marik’s eyes dilate after his own dawned with understanding. However eerie the man seemed, Bakura had never been taken for someone with potential of any kind, and he felt a sudden need to live up to it.

He tightened his fists and pressed them against his legs. “Myself,” he finally answered, his voice surprisingly even.

Ever so slightly, Marik tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. “Oh?”

“I can’t seem to pin down a reason for why I called you. More than anything else, it’s the not knowing why I’m going against all rational reason here that’s agitating me.”

Marik pulled back, pressing his spine against the chair and once again tossing his knee carelessly over the other. He seemed pleased. “Maybe you had your own curiosity to gratify,” he replied, an implied _like me_ hanging in the air.

“Maybe. But curiosity can be dangerous.”

Marik’s eyes glinted. “Are you asking if I’m dangerous?”

“I think I’ve made that assumption for myself already.”

Marik laughed. Bakura stifled himself before he jumped at the sharp sound. “So then, you’re wondering if _you specifically_ are in danger?”

“I imagine that’s a reasonable thing to wonder.”

Marik lowered his chin. “What kind of danger do you imagine I could put you in?”

Was that sweat Bakura felt pricking at his neck? He’d never had a conversation like this. How could he possibly get out of it if he wanted to? Running seemed too ridiculous, and ineffectual. Marik could easily chase him, or just come back and stalk him. No, he had to see this through. And yet, maybe Marik was right. Maybe he _was_ curious. Maybe he _wanted_ to see this through.

“I don’t know you enough to tell.”

“What does your instinct tell you?”

His instinct told him to run. Run far and fast.

Marik’s laughing eyes suggested he knew that.

Bakura pressed his feet against the ground in determination.

“It tells me to have you do the card reading.”

Marik chuckled then reached deep into his pocket, pulling out the deck and flashing the Egyptian art. “You have quite a sophisticated instinct,” he commented, placing the cards on the table.

“Flexible, perhaps,” he corrected as Marik slowly pushed the deck smoothly toward him. “It adapts to the situation.” He took up the deck after Marik’s hand pulled away and began to shuffle skillfully with his eyes firmly on his companion’s. Marik stared back, his constant smirk imbuing some mischief to his curious eyes. When Bakura had finished he tapped the deck together into a smooth whole and handed it back, adding, “And I know that you can learn a lot about someone by what they read into a message.” He held it out steady forcing Marik to take it from him.

Marik waited the space of a breath before complying, letting his hand rest on top of the deck for a moment, his fingers brushing against the skin of Bakura’s wrist, before he gripped and lifted it. He moved with the slow ease of someone with all the time in the world, savoring every second with great sensual pleasure.

“Well then, let’s get your answers,” he said calmly, laying three cards side-by-side in front of him, facedown. He pressed the rest of the deck down at the table’s corner then announced, “We’ll start with something simple for now: the situation, what you should do, and the outcome,” pointing one-by-one to each card.

Bakura agreed with a nod.

“So, do I pose any threat to you?” Marik grinned and then delicately flipped the first card with his long, slender fingers.

“Ah, The Moon,” he said. “The unknown, the mysterious, fear, imagination. How appropriate.” He flicked his eyes up and Bakura suppressed a shiver. “The situation, then, is that you are quite bewildered, facing something utterly new. Well, we knew that—you yourself said it. Let’s see what the response to this anxiety should be.”

Again he used his fingertips to reveal the hidden face. “The Fool,” he announced with a grin. “The spontaneous journeyman following his impulse to start a new adventure, purely on good faith. I’d say the message here is to follow the path that has opened up to you. It may seem insane, but that doesn’t mean there has to be regrettable repercussions. Which leads to . . .” he let his hand hover over the final card, wriggling his fingers in the air. Bakura found himself dramatically invested in this final revelation. Marik flipped it slowly, his eyes flickering back and forth between the card and Marik’s eyes as he did so.

“The World,” Marik murmured in a tone that evoked the image of him running his tongue across his teeth. “A sense of wholeness and balance. Accomplishment.” Marik lifted his gaze and Bakura saw that the insatiable fascination in his eyes had only grown. “Well isn’t that interesting?” he mused.

“Very,” Bakura agreed, staring down at the deck’s message to him.

“And what’s your conclusion?”

Bakura knew he had to make his own decision here, the cards weren’t final or even perfectly clairvoyant. Everything was still up to him. And he still didn’t feel any less ambivalent.

Was this the kind of guy he could do anything normal with, like, get a cup of coffee with? Or would he always have that eerie haunted feeling putting him on edge?

And really, what kind of danger _did_ he think he was in? Just because he gave off a creepy vibe didn’t actually mean he was some kind of psychopath, did it?

Oh lord help him, what was he about to get himself into?

“I think I still need more material to work with,” he answered in his best nonchalant voice, though in all honesty it probably came out more bashful than he would have liked. Marik cocked an eyebrow. Bakura persisted in his effort to seem assertive, standing up with resolve. “Why don’t we get something to drink and you can actually tell me something about yourself.”

Marik returned the suggestion with a satisfied guttural sound, and as he stood Bakura could _swear_ he heard Marik’s voice inside his head purr suggestively, _I told you this would be special . . ._


End file.
